


Dread In My Heart

by GalacticGoat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Apocalypse, Body Horror, But anyways back to tagging things, Drug Mentions, Gore, Humanstuck, I'll keep adding tags as things progress, I'm serious there is violence and gross things so be careful please, M/M, Sorry there's like no ship stuff yet, Swearing, Vomiting, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, Zombiestuck, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2277474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticGoat/pseuds/GalacticGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since you were fresh out from the tumultuous storm of chaos and self-development known as puberty, you had never exactly had a bright perspective on the world’s future. At the cusp between your childhood and teenage years, it occurred to you that there was a cold, harsh reality that your planet was bound to go down the shithole at some point. While it’s obvious that sunshine, rainbows, and marshmallows do not spew directly from your asshole, your imagination was kind enough to believe that it would not necessarily be a violent, abrupt ending-- “going out with a bang,” as many smarmy scumbags would say. You presupposed it’d be more like a prolonged, pathetic whine that spanned many years then sputtered out like the final remnants of air escaping a balloon. It would still be just as depressing as fuck, but at least the end would be in sight. There’s always some slight solace that comes from knowing what to expect.</p><p>EDIT: Unfortunately, this fic has been discontinued. However, there is a rewrite being made called 'Better Broken', if anyone wants to check that out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Ever since you were fresh out from the tumultuous storm of chaos and self-development known as puberty, you had never exactly had a bright perspective on the world’s future. At the cusp between your childhood and teenage years, it occurred to you that there was a cold, harsh reality that your planet was bound to go down the shithole at some point. While it’s obvious that sunshine, rainbows, and marshmallows do not spew directly from your asshole, your imagination was kind enough to believe that it would not necessarily be a violent, abrupt ending-- “going out with a bang,” as many smarmy scumbags would say. You presupposed it’d be more like a prolonged, pathetic whine that spanned many years then sputtered out like the final remnants of air escaping a balloon. It would still be just as depressing as fuck, but at least the end would be in sight. There’s always some slight solace that comes from knowing what to expect.

If being able to guess incorrectly was a contest, you would win the first place prize, three of the other contenders, a miniature pony, and a lifetime supply of wet-wipes for when you undoubtedly got blood on the nearest flat surface from hitting your head against it too hard. Now, if you were asked to describe the apocalypse, it would have nothing to do with bangs or whines. The sound of half the planet’s population shitting itself in horror is infinitely more accurate.

You sincerely wish this entire clusterfuck had gone underway countless years into the future when you ceased existing as anything other than a jumble of bones in the ground. Alas, woe is you! You get to enjoy your imminent (and likely blood-splattered) demise at seventeen years of age. Apparently scientists simply could not wait to start testing out serums that jumpstarted nerve impulses in a brain, which had already stopped functioning because its owner was dead. You honestly want to know which ignoramus thought that reanimating the dead was a good hobby to take up. If you could find them, you’d gratuitously shove your foot so far up their ass that they’d taste the mysterious substance you stepped in last month.

Back on topic, their experiment was an astounding success. So triumphant, in fact, that their subject managed to miraculously lift itself off the operating table, tear its observers to pieces, then proceeded to repeat the latter action whenever it encountered anyone that stood in its path for more than an iota of a second. It broke out of the lab, where it was introduced to the intriguing concept of an all-you-can-eat-buffet. This was presented in the form of a massive crowd of humans going about their everyday lives. Because you are so very far from being able to declare yourself a scientist complete with a pristine white lab coat of pompous wiseass-ery, the most you can say is that the original subject’s undead “condition,” is contagious, and the newly deceased population who share said condition started breeding like rabbits trapped in a cage while listening to George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” on loop.

Now, the masses are likely asking, “Karkat, I understand that things are shittier than a man who generously overdosed on laxatives, but what exactly have you been doing this whole time?” You’ll gladly answer in a lengthy, likely expletive-filled manner with extremely graphic depictions, but in forewarning, the past week has been a bit hectic. Many vital details will accidentally be omitted, probably. This will not stop you from trying to accurately describe what your life has become ever since you all had been screwed over, though.

_____________________________________________________________________

It started in your living room, watching TV with your father when the first declaration of a zombie outbreak about a state away from your home appeared on a newscast. Of course this had been regarded with skepticism; neither of you were chickenshits that acted like they accidentally stapled their private parts in reaction to a probably fallacious story. You went to bed like you would have any other night.

The next morning started with a healthy dosage of shoulder-shaking at 3 a.m., followed by your father practically dragging you out of bed and pulling your groggy ass to the car. It didn’t strike you that there was likely a reason for your dad’s unplanned journey to fuck-knows-where until you’d spent a quarter of an hour in the car. As you opened your maw to ask the impending question, a silhouette leapt into your vision, directly in front of your car. An alarmed glance over to your driver revealed that his logical mental processes had come to a standstill-- you could safely come to this assumption because _he stepped harder on the gas pedal_. You reached over to firmly grip the steering wheel and yanked it towards you because _there was no way you were letting your father become a murderer and what else could you do? There was no time to hit the brakes and oh **FUCK!!!**_

You’d never been a master with foresight, so it was to everyone’s surprise that the car swerved entirely off the road and headed straight down the forested right-side hill. The panicked shouting elicited from both of your mouths was warped by the bouncing your vehicle experienced as it raced downhill. You slammed your eyes shut as a particularly colossal tree loomed ahead. That was the day you were reminded that seat belts have a purpose besides constricting you from sitting in a comfortable position during car rides. If you hadn’t been wearing one, there is no doubt that you would have been launched from your seat with the grace of a wet sack of horseshit. That was also the day that you discovered what it feels like to have your entire face slammed into an airbag. The bloody nose that followed was astronomical.

While clambering out of your car, your nose, throat, and eyes were properly introduced to, then promptly bodyslammed by the immense amount of smoke pouring from the engine. The gears in your head turned embarrassingly slow as you came to the groundbreaking conclusion that the engine was probably on fire. _And holy motherfucking shit-covered Christ on a stick, your dad was probably still in there._ You limped over to the driver’s side of the car as quickly as possible for someone likely concussed.

If there was a physically possible way for someone to chug three gallons of bleach and miraculously survive, you would have attempted it in order to erase the sight that greeted you. To say your father was crushed was an understatement. He was fucking pulverized into blood and bits. Your side of the car hadn’t impacted the tree directly, but your dad wasn’t nearly that fortunate. The entire left side of the car was squished into scrap metal. You politely excused yourself to stumble a small distance away so you could morph into a vomit volcano.

With all the contents of your stomach presented kindly as a gift to the forest floor, it was apparent that you needed to take action. Your line of thinking barely counted as a line, at that point. Instead, it was a throbbing jumble of incoherent urges and concerns that all amalgamated into a single motive: **GET HELP.** Absolutely no crying occurred; fuck that presumptuous thought, and fuck the high horse it rode in on. Your eyes were obviously sweating as you took a final fleeting glimpse at the wreckage and embarked upon a nigh impossible trek back up the hill.

You may as well have been dubbed the first living human/jelly hybrid, because your legs were that wobbly. There was an early-morning fog that made your visibility of the ground right between “That’s a rock about a foot in front of me, right?” and “My feet are barely discernable and I am concerned.” It’d be fair to say that your journey consisted of more crawling compared to actual walking. The ground seemed to take eons to level into a flat surface, and when your foot came into contact with asphalt you felt fit to collapse.

But being the fucking champ you are, you started to follow the road. You had seen a person’s silhouette before that whole thing… went down. Because you had not felt a jarring thump against your car, it was likely that they were still up and about, that lucky assmunch. They were probably rattled by their brush with death, but maybe they’d find kindness somewhere in their heart and offer one of their almost-murderers a clammy yet helpful hand.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

The sun creeped over the horizon slower than a turtle doped up on idiot drugs. A headache pounded like a drumbeat through your temples. Your T-shirt and pajama pants were getting wet and clingy thanks to the sweatstorm you were brewing up. You walked. And walked. And walked a little more, for good measure. Still, your efforts appeared fruitless; there wasn’t a single person in sight. How fast had that dipshit moved? Unless they were an Olympic athlete with a gold medal for their ability to move their legs in a manner that propelled them forward at the speed of sound, you should have ran into them by then. Under your breath you began to mutter a mantra of “just find the fucking idiot,” like you were playing a deranged game of _Where’s Waldo_ and Waldo was your lifeline.Then again, in that scenario, he probably was.

You almost thought it was a hallucination when a figure appeared amongst the mist about half a mile away. To think that any heavenly being had looked upon you with feelings of solicitude just about made your mind implode. Yet, no matter how vigorously you rubbed your itchy eyes, the sight did not disappear. You started to run, moving about as elegantly as a drunken giraffe on stilts.

Quickly approaching, it was obvious that something was off. The figure stood in a single place with their back to you. What was even more unnerving was their incessant swaying backwards and forwards. Maybe they were experiencing the acid trip of a lifetime and a single step from that exact spot would send them hurtling into the deepest, darkest corners of their drug-addled brain, or something. Your frantic flight in their direction slowed to a more cautious approach.

Once you had reached a mere few feet away, your observations got a little more disturbing. You were close enough to see that this was a woman. She must’ve heard the racket you made while barreling towards her initially, but she did not bother to turn around to acknowledge you. Her shirt-- or at least the back of it-- was riddled with tears of varying sizes. The skin underneath was a pasty white. She was still swaying. If you had been held under even remotely less dire circumstances, you would have refused to touch this lady, even with a ten-foot-long, sterilized pole. But you had no other option.

You were already speaking in a disgustingly raspy voice ( _gee fucking thanks, smoke_ ) as you took the final steps over in order to grasp her shoulder.

“Hey, I understand that you’re likely mentally incapacitated from your current drug-related excursion, but I could really use some help--” You were cut off by rabid, guttural moaning that likely ripped that woman’s throat to shreds as she jerked her entire body to face you. Your hand was still extended, but like hell you were going to finish the action of reaching all the way over after you had gotten a view of her face.

First off, her entire front was covered in blood. While that in and of itself would usually have been enough to send you screaming towards the hills, you felt paralyzed and entranced. You couldn’t decide whether the gaping bite wound at the base of her throat or the shredded skin that was dangling off her jaw like ancient, peeling wallpaper was more disgusting. You came to a mental impasse once she made a clumsy movement towards you.

For a person that at a first impression seemed to be cursed with an inability to take two consecutive steps without faceplanting, she certainly could move fast. You recount only taking three steps backwards before being pushed down by a particular someone whose face made it look like they’d battled an apoplectic paper shredder and lost. The woman then dropped down on top of you, her jaw opening and closing like a starving animal’s. It took a majority of your upper body strength to keep her teeth from getting up close and personal with your jugular. There was a cacophony of grunts, groans, growls, and the occasional shout from both you and her as you struggled to get an advantage. Drawing your legs between the two of you and close to your body, you positioned your feet on the upper half of her stomach and kicked as hard as you could.

The effect wasn’t as grand as you would have hoped, considering the woman didn’t go flying, and instead simply flopped over onto her back. But you were liberated from your attacker, and you then had the upper hand. Scrambling to your feet, you could tell that there wasn’t going to be much resistance on her part. She was spasmodically waving her limbs in the air like a loathsome, dying cockroach, but she did not seem like she knew that she was fully capable of getting back on to her feet without help. The bite wound she sported was on full display. Since you finally had time to catch your breath and take a longer look at her, there was no doubt that she should’ve been dead with an untreated injury like that.

You suddenly remembered the news report from the night before. You and your father had ignored it as yet another ploy to gain the attention of the public. Well, fuck you sideways with a rusty kitchen implement, it looked like they were telling the truth. Of course you two had had to be the moronic dunderfucks and blatantly regard everything that came from the news as undeniably fictitious. Your incredulity had landed you ass-backwards in what was guaranteed to be one of the most psychologically scarring days of your life. If you both had been prepared for this, then maybe your dad wouldn’t have ended up being little more than a corpse puree!

You finally understood why he had pulled you into the car with him that morning; he was trying to get you away from the encroaching zombie threat that had seemingly managed to sneak its way dangerously close to your town in a single night-- apparently only fifteen minutes away from your house by car. And how did you thank him for not leaving you behind? You killed him in a swift and heedless decision. He had sped up when he saw the silhouette because he knew there was an enormous possibility it wasn’t a person anymore! If you had just let him do what was necessary, you’d both still be speeding away to somewhere safer. But no, you had to act on impulse, you vile, improvident bastard.

So, you managed to piece all the clues together to solve the mystery. Your dad was dead because of you, (You refused to speculate further on that because a mental breakdown was absolutely NOT an option at that moment) and your assailant was a zombie who probably had an insatiable craving for the idiot organ floating around in your cranium. Hooray. Cue the confetti. Bring out the frosted shit-flavored cake.

You weren’t entirely sure what to do with your newfound soulless corpse, but if modern-day television shows had ever taught you anything about zombie apocalypses, the safest course of action would have been to beat its head in with the heaviest object available… That plan was set back due to a lack of heavy objects to beat the motherfucker with. Also, there was the fact that you were not entirely sure you could follow through with it. Then you were left with Plan B: running away and praying that you would stumble upon sentient members of civilization before the living dead stumbled upon you. That was something you could work with.

_____________________________________________________________________

You didn’t even make it a mile before getting attacked again. The notion that any plan of yours could ever possibly go well was apparently asinine to everyone but yourself. “Everyone” includes zombies, because one of the morons refused to let you go merrily along your way. He precipitously slammed into your side with the force of a jet on steroids. While you momentarily lost your footing, you miraculously remained upright; unfortunately, your recovery cost you the opportunity to flee. For the second time in ten minutes, you found yourself going head-to-head with another walking cadaver.

To say that the man smelled like trash marinated in liquified shit would be an understatement. The entire left side of his torso had fucked off to somewhere far, far away from the remainder of his body. And most importantly, without any weapons to fight him with, he seemed frightening as hell. Of course there was no time to ruminate on that thought, so you braced yourself for the showdown.

Any dread you had originally swallowed down in order to face the first barfpuppet returned thrice-fold as more of his buddies decided to join the self-proclaimed corpse-party. A one-on-one match seemed unpropitious, but attempting to face multiple asswipes was downright suicidal. It looked like the end of the line. Sayonara, living, breathing, and having a consciousness. Hello, eternity condemned to wandering the earth as a flesh-craving, decayed shell of what you once were.

It would be an outright lie to say that you weren’t screaming like a pig being held under a butcher’s knife as McDickerson & Co. circled around you and started to close in. They were unacceptably near you, and each of their unbearable stenches morphed together to become the smelliest of excrescences, when combined via proximity. You can’t recall when your eyes came to be shut, but they definitely weren’t open when you felt someone’s cold hand suddenly clutch your sweaty hair, or when you felt some sort of bodily fluid begin dripping on your shoulders. Limbs of all shapes and sizes found themselves tangled around you haphazardly and you were fighting to get loose but everything you touched, smelled, and even tasted in the air was like DEATH and you were so fucking DEAD and--

A noise not dissimilar to a watermelon being savagely blugeoned into mush sounded out. The hand on your head gave an exaggerated twitch and went limp.The sound kept ringing out, and each time it occurred, one of your aggressors would collapse like a crappy pile of spaghetti. Your eyes remained shut tight until the last groping hand had dropped from your person.

Warily opening your right eye, you were greeted with a vision of a boy about your age. His shoulders were heaving as he caught his breath, but your gaze was a little more focused on the gore-splattered sledgehammer that had just rescued you from what would have indubitably been known as a shameful death. Over his shoulder you could see a grown man with a heavy-looking backpack racing towards you. He slowed to a halt and perched his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He started to say something aimed towards whom was likely his son in a furious voice, but the teenager ignored him and took a tentative step towards you. His tone was obnoxiously concerned as he asked, “Dude, are you okay?”

You wondered what was so concerning about you that the dickblister believed he had to be gentle with you. Oh. Wait. There was still blood running down your face from the nosebleed following the crash. Combining that with the miniscule amount of rest you’d gotten and the amount of walking/running you had had to do, you likely looked as healthy as a horse. A horse that had contracted a highly lethal disease and was due to kneel over and die in an hour’s time. Still, it infuriated you that he instantly assumed that you needed to be treated like a fragile flower. You weren’t that weak. Your ego had been wounded, and you would be sure to inform the guy as such.

It would have been easier to give the boy a piece of your mind if your head hadn’t felt like it was wobbling its way through space and time instead of remaining dutifully planted between your shoulders, but you still aggressively stomped forwards. Your voice resembled that of a heavy smoker’s as you began your tirade.

“Gee, I fucking wonder. I’ve spent my entire morning out on this open road walking, and occasionally bumping genetalia in the most aggressive of manners with all these unliving abominations. I’m bleeding from my face, and it’s highly possible that my brain is swelling more than my inflamed dick after contracting innumerous STDs from my misadventures.” The father and the teen’s faces were scrunched up with uncertainty and distaste, but you took another deep breath and plowed onwards. “I smell like shit, and I look like it too. So unless you lack the two brain cells necessary to jump to the logical conclusion that I’m not okay, then I suggest you take that question and cram it back down your inane gullet with all your other harebrained queries. Even if I’m firmly parked miles away from the ‘physically sound’ zone, I’m honestly exasperated that your first line of thought was that the best thing to do was treat me like a flimsy pansy. Call me a haughty shitmouth with way too much pride, but don’t act that way with me again or you will regret it!” 

There was a long moment of silence before the boy replied in a confused voice, “Are you saying that you had sex with multiple zombies? That’s really gross, ew.”

That was it. You were done with this asstown. He didn’t even listen to what the entire goddamn point of that monologue was! You began to tromp your way over to initiate the grand ceremony of pounding his face in with your fists, but suddenly your feet refused to support you. You felt like a puppet that had had all its strings snipped in a single, swift motion. Fainting was a bitch, but at least you weren’t awake to feel the impact of your head hitting the ground.

_____________________________________________________________________

Waking up was usually an endeavour in and of itself on a normal day, but doing it on that specific evening was more difficult than climbing Mount Everest butt naked without losing your fingers and dick to the relentless clasp of frostbite. You somehow managed, but instantly regretted it once you felt the cottony presence of your tongue and the enduring headache settled in your skull. That evoked a groan of complaint from you. Something moved nearby, motivating you to open your eyes and survey your surroundings. You were in a bedroom that wasn’t your own. Posters for (appallingly horrible) movies were plastered everywhere, with a few spots of light blue wall peering out. You shifted to look to your side, but your gaze was filled with the grim mug of the adult you had met right before passing out. You flinched back, but he remained unperturbed as he held a light up and looked into each of your eyes. Letting out a focused hum, he moved his face back to a respectable distance.

“I’m no doctor, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t have a concussion. You didn’t seem that disoriented earlier, judging by your ability to verbally assault my son,” an involuntary shudder of shame ran down your spine as he said this in such a condescending manner, “and your pupils are reacting to light correctly, but that isn’t enough to make a safe guess. Could you tell me if you feel like you’ve had have any of the symptoms for a concussion?” You didn’t even bother putting effort into a snappy comeback; you just informed the man of your headache and the fact that you had vomited once (though you didn’t give the context behind that). He solemnly nodded then replied, “I would advise that you take it easy, then. On another note, would you care to join my family and I for dinner?” Hm. Talk about an conversational 180. 

If you agreed, then you’d have to go down and face the humiliation that came with being an acrimonious bag of dicks to the boy who ended up helping you… But you would get food. You had nearly declined the offer, but a growl from your stomach that sounded like Godzilla with indigestion made you change your mind. You trailed behind the man as you descended the stairs. He pushed the door to the kitchen open, and inside you could see two people seated at a table to the side of the room: the boy from earlier, and a girl that also seemed to be your age. Getting seated at the table was painfully awkward. No one spoke as you settled into your chair, across from the two other teens. The man hustled away for a moment, and returned with a pot of tomato soup and a ladle. He walked off again, only to return with four separate bowls and spoons. He distributed the items on the table, served soup into everyone’s respective bowls and planted his ass in the chair next to you. You quietly picked up your spoon and began to eat.

“Sorry about only being able to serve soup, young man. We haven’t had the chance to raid an actual grocery store yet, so we’ve started to ration our meals in case we don’t find anything when we go searching. Hopefully, the soup will be enough to satisfy you for the night, though.” He spoke in a slightly hushed yet assuring manner, which was kind of strange. You gave a meek nod as you brought another spoonful to your mouth. The man carried on saying, “I believe some introductions are in order-- What kind of a gentleman would I be if I forgot to get everyone acquainted? This,” he gestured to the boy (who had a expression painted on his face as he ate that made him look mildly constipated), “is my son, John Egbert. Next to John is his cousin and my niece, Jade Harley,” she sent a quick wave in your direction, “who has been staying with us for quite a while now due to some complications involving her guardian. My name is Mr. Egbert, but feel free to call me James. We’ve welcomed you into our home, but we still don’t know your name. Would you mind telling us?”

You hesitated a moment before muttering, “Karkat Vantas.” Mr. Egbert began to respond before a quiet chortle of laughter followed by “Beep beep, meow,” cut him off. The culprit was leaned over towards his cousin, his hand cupped with its back to you. He looked like he was trying to secretly share the most side-splitting joke ever shit out from the universe itself, rather than a jab at your name that you’d heard at least three times a day during middle school. You considered reaching over and smacking the juvenile crotchstain upside the head, but Jade beat you to it. Maybe she was less of a nuisance compared to her cousin. John’s dad cleared his throat and continued. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Karkat, though I do wish it had been under better circumstances. I’m just thankful John helped you before it was too late, though at the time, his actions seemed more reckless than brave.” Both you and John had shifted uncomfortably with that last comment.

Mr. Egbert’s mouth was still yammering. “You are more than welcome to stay here for as long as you like. We are momentarily safe thanks to our generously barricaded doors and windows.” A quick twist of your torso confirmed that all entrances and exits visible from your spot were nailed shut, with the exception of a single door. Said door was blocked instead by a very large wardrobe. “There is still water running through the pipes, but we’ve been filling bottles, pitchers, and bowls in case we lose that luxury soon. You’ll find that we are rather well-off for the moment, but I must ask you to keep your voice relatively low. The people outside aren’t very attentive, but loud sounds seem to draw crowds of them in, which we’d rather not have.” Great. That was a fantastic request for a kid who had been practically screaming 24/7 since the day he left the womb.

“There are a few other things I’ll need to go over with you if you decide to stick around, but that can be brought up a little later. I’m sorry that I’ve been interrogating you since the moment you woke up, but this is fairly important. Do you have a family? I wouldn’t want to steal away anyone’s son without even giving a heads-up. The possibility to get you home safely is unlikely, but since the phone lines are still up, we could call them.” Your heart plummeted, and your appetite vanished.

“No, my mom died when I was a kid, and my dad’s gone now too,” you answered in the firmest voice you could muster. Jade gave you a sympathetic stare while John mumbled out “sorry, dude.” You didn’t really want their pity, but you ignored the pinge of irritation for the moment.

It felt like you would never be able to just enjoy sitting in peace as the senior Egbert unlatched his trap once again.

“You have my sincere apology, that must have been very hard to go through once, let alone twice. This is my last question, and then I’ll leave you alone. John and I were out to grab more nails from a hardware store to board up the house; we didn’t drive because we are saving the gas for absolute emergencies. We were headed home from our trip when we found you. Why exactly were you doing out there in the first place? Shouldn’t you have been holed up somewhere a little more secure? Did you know what was going on?”

You were absolutely itching to point out that that was actually three questions, not one, and that you didn’t sign up to play 24 Questions: Karkat Edition. It would be a douche move, but you weren’t really up for telling the truth, considering it involved recounting you slaughtering your dad. Still, the man had offered you a place to stay with not even a preliminary background check. You owed him. _To be honest and experience a flood of emotional trauma now, or to be dishonest and cram your feelings deep, deep down until they welled back up in the form of rash decisions and self-deprecating thoughts…_

You lied. Your story began with the truth, though. The events from between when you heard the news report and when you got into the car to drive off were absolutely genuine. But right as you took a deep breath to describe the crash, the idea of revealing what you had done seemed even more outright insane. Why on Earth would you admit you that you killed your dad? These people were your only chance at survival, but would they be so welcoming if they knew what you had done? You couldn’t say anything. Instead, you improvised and described how your car had popped a tire, forcing you and your father to stop on the open road. It almost sounded believable as you explained that you’d been caught by surprise as a group of zombies appeared, and how your dad had shouted at you to run while he tried to fight them off. John, Jade, and Mr. Egbert were captivated with horror as you continue to fabricate your tale, telling them that you had tripped and stumbled, smacking your nose (thus the nosebleed and possible concussion) as you hit the ground. Successfully fudging the worst part, you reverted back to the truth and recalled how you had first found the woman, and then had been attacked later by another group. Your conclusion was anti-climatic, but the energy you had spent trying to sound stoic the entire time had left you with not enough fucks to give. You didn’t want to break down crying at this table-- these people were merely acquaintances, and you had to give them the impression that you were tough.

You had not expected it when Jade had pushed out of her chair and walked around the table to give you a fierce hug. The two men of the house remained in their seats, but it was obvious they wanted to reach out and comfort you as well. Ugh. You were stuck in a house with emotional shitwhiffers. It could have been worse, though.

The rest of your dinner had been considerably uneventful. You chatted until it was late at night. Your hosts filled in the gaps of your understanding of the zombie outbreak (meaning, they pretty much told you absolutely everything that had occurred). Mr. Egbert described the “shifts” that each person took to watch the unboarded door throughout the day and night. The family asked if you wanted to go with them to search a grocery store the next day, and you accepted because it was an opportunity to get off your ass and actually contribute your efforts into something helpful (even if it meant getting a face full of the ugly corpses wandering around outside). Jade offered to take the watch shift for a few hours while the rest of you could get some rest.

You had clambered up the stairs into the room you had woken up in, which was apparently John’s room. John had pointed out where the bathroom was, and you took the steamiest shower of your life, scrubbing at your body hard enough that you were shocked when you didn’t lose entire chunks of your skin. After that, you had settled into bed, slightly regretful of the fact that John would have to sleep on an uncomfortable air mattress thanks to you. Eh. You both could figure it out the next day, or something.

_____________________________________________________________________

The transition to an entirely new household wasn’t a clean one, but it wasn’t necessarily awful, either. You would start missing your dad, but then your brain would dutifully remind why he was gone, and you’d spiral into a fucking loop of self-loathing and disgust. If you sat alone for too long, that same train of thought would rear its repugnant head and there were already too many occasions where you’d nearly been caught looking a little too shiny-eyed. You had started filling up your agenda with tasks your hosts asked you to help them with. From store raiding to making a moderately palatable dinner for the others, you could sometimes take your mind off things.

On one trip from a mission to get medicine from a pharmacy in a nearby town, you had tripped on a sickle lying in an open field you were crossing. You weren’t even sure if sickles were still in use for fields in the U.S., so its presence was just about as baffling as the thought that anyone thought Sharknado was a good movie. The thing looked straight out of the mid 1960s, but it had the potential to serve as a weapon, which was definitely a thing you needed. It felt good to be armed.

You and your new housemates were up day and night, working to keep the impression of a functioning family, but a slew of problems kept popping up, and some of them weren’t solvable.

The day after your arrival you had gone to the grocery store. You, Jade, and Mr. Egbert had left the house while John stayed to guard. Your expectations for the raid weren’t blindly optimistic, but you had anticipated there being at least enough to support you all for another two or three months. Three backpacks had been carried with you, but only half of one was filled. Returning home to see the other teenage boy’s face droop farther down than the fucking Grand Canyon after hearing the news was disheartening. Three days later the cosmos rained down another shower of “fuck you”s upon your humble village. The water stopped running, and the phone lines ceased functioning. You all had had to use a community bucket to store waste, meaning no one would enter the bathroom hosting that nasty shit unless they were forced to. You would never look at a bucket the same way again.

_____________________________________________________________________

And that concludes this session of “Catching Up With Karkat”. You’re still in this house. It’s been two days since you lost running water. The amount of bottles, pitchers and bowls you have that contain drinking water will run out by the end of next week, and there aren’t any wells, ponds or rivers nearby. There's a lake a few houses down, but it's likely polluted as all fuck, meaning it's not really an option. Food supplies are dwindling faster than a young teen coming to cheap pornography. The monsters outside are increasing in number every day. You’re all dirty, tired, and probably looking uglier than a donkey’s left asscheek right now. Personally, you are still coping with the gnawing guilt that’s chewing on your insides like a writhing parasite. You haven’t come clean to the others, and you probably never will.

Your future is looking downright menacing, and you are scared absolutely shitless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end of chapter one, woohoo! i know there are probably plenty of errors and the pacing's not-so-great but sorry, this is my second time ever attempting to write a fanfiction (the first time i created a grand total of 5 chapters then realized it was all trash so). this is all a huge learning experience for me, so i guess we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> there is a particular... thing... in there that looks like it could be a plot hole, but trust me, i've noticed it and it'll almost definitely be put to good use. ;) ;) ;)
> 
> the title is actually the name of a song by mother mother: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGJdYxjkVBU
> 
> i'll probably end up changing the story's summary because i'm a little uncertain about it, but it'll just stay there for now. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading this!


	2. Chapter Two

“I didn’t know you guys had a dog,” you say as you pluck a can of dog food from the now-empty cupboard. You scuttle over to the kitchen table where your companions are already seated, and place the can down in the center of the table.

“Um. Bec. He ran away a few weeks ago, though I’m pretty sure he’s still out there doing fine. He’s a smart boy,” Jade explains with a weak smile. You can tell she’s trying to be optimistic, but the way her mouth sags downwards and her eyes look a little misty describe another story. You don’t really know how to comfort her, so you get to your actual point.

“Anyways, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is all that was left in your kitchen cupboard. Unless we’re willing to dole this out in a manner that’ll last us the remainder of our lives, we’re going to have to do something soon.” You don’t even mention how terrible it is that the room has no objections stating that dog food is not out of the question for sustenance. It’s been two weeks since the world ended, and frankly, you all have never felt crappier. Still, you had done a damn good job stringing out your provisions. Mr. Egbert had thought you’d only last a week and a half with no running water, but you’d proven him wrong and endured the predicted amount of time and an additional four days, so far. Unfortunately, your food dilemma is the reason you must wave the white flag of crippling failure.

Admitting defeat is about as easy as yanking your internal organs out through your oral cavity and remaining mentally intact during the gruesome process. You all had put so much effort into trying to survive with what you had. It was pretty damn unlucky that the house you’d decided to shack up in stocked very little in its pantry, and way too much in its fridge. The power had been down for so long that only those daring enough to risk death by asphyxiation would willingly open that fridge door. That left you with limited options in the food department. You had rationed everything-- even to the point where the most you got in a day was a tiny plastic cup of rice and a few swigs of water. Hygiene-wise, you’re sure that if the zombies outside weren’t already dead, you and the others could become weapons of mass murder with the help of the unbearable stench that follows each of you like a swarm of shit-eating flies. Raids were your main source of materials, but those had been halted when you realized that the number of monsters occupying the area outside made it impossible for anyone to move their arm to scratch their own ass, let alone make a sneaky trip to the store for supplies. The most you can do is open the door to dump any waste on the back porch before quickly slamming the door shut. A vast majority of your everyday luxuries of the past had been pried from your overly-dependent hands. Losing running water and easily accessible food sucked enough, but taking away the power and the internet connection ended up being even more wretched.

Now that your option to be sitting ducks has been trampled along with any of your hopes for a possible solution to arrive quickly, it’s time to get to business.

“I understand that you all are attached to this place closer than a disgusting leech on a hideous, gargantuan beast, but our best bet is to pack as much as is necessary into your car and drive somewhere far, far away. Preferably somewhere with as few zombies as possible.” John is giving you the faintest of nods, while his dad shifts his (empty) pipe from one corner of his mouth to another. Jade isn’t even making any motions, she’s just sitting rigidly with her eyes fixed on you.

“Look, someone give me a fucking pat on the head for being a good little organizer and even thinking of a viable place we can head to! Well, granted, it’s less of a ‘place,’ and more of a ‘direction,’ but hey, it’s better than jack shit.” You pull out a crumpled up map from your jacket’s pocket; none of them had to know that you had found it by practically upturning Mr. Egbert’s office. You carefully try to smooth out its wrinkles and smack it down on to the table.

“Now, see. We are here,” you point to an area that is a tad to the left from center of Washington, “and we know that the outbreak seems to have started here.” You direct your finger to Olympia. “Now, if I weren’t an utter imbecile with a half a brain and a death wish, where would I go?” The expression of mock-contemplation that crosses your features probably makes you look exactly like an idiot. “Towards the south, where the disease is spreading the quickest, and closer to the flames that will scorch us the fuck to death,” Pause for emphasis… “or up to the north, where there are fewer people and colder weather. That means whatever corpses follow us up there will move significantly slower thanks to their limbs getting stiff from the cold. Winter is almost here, so we could use it to our advantage.” Okay, so your plan is far from being absolutely ingenious, but it at least makes a point. It’s practical. It makes sense.

“I see what you’re getting at dude, but, is there any actual destination? We need to have a place to stay, considering cars don’t have an unlimited amount of gas.” John voices what everyone’s thinking, but you can barely restrain yourself from rolling your eyes dramatically. Did they honestly think you could think of an exact place to travel to that would miraculously liberate you from your mountain of troubles? If you could have found such an area, then you would have shared this “plan” days ago-- and it would have actually been a plan. But no, the most you can do is recommend which direction will ensure that you all can cling to life for at least several more days. You let out an exasperated sigh and begin a rant that is oozing with sarcasm.

“Ah, yes, here I am, planner extraordinaire--”

“You did say you were a ‘good little organizer’”

“--Shut up Jade. Pardon me while I hustle into the most reclusive of rooms. Alone with my schedules and agendas, I will touch myself somewhat erotically in an attempt to stimulate my mind and form a flawless solution to the shrieking metal trainwreck that is our current living situation! A particularly scandalous brush from a calendar to the nether regions gives me a brilliant revelation! John, come closer, this is for your ears, and your ears alone.” He leans in, somewhat perplexed. You whisper-shout into his ear. “The revelation was to go fuck yourself!”

Mr. Egbert clears his throat in a manner that displays his stern fatherly disapproval. You can get away with most of your foul language, but when it gets malicious and aimed towards anyone in particular, he gets protective. In a way, it’s probably smart that he intervenes so quickly; there needs to at least be a semblance of harmony in the group or else chaos will explode your asses like a trajectory missile. You slink out of your stiff position.

John just looks offended as he finally responds, “Well, that was stupid. I just asked a question! No need to get angry at me! I’m just as clueless as you, but I’m not yelling.”

“Yeah, Karkat, maybe you should take it down a notch? We’re all in the same situation so we shouldn’t be at each others’ throats!” Jade chimes in. You grunt and shuffle over to sulk in a corner of the room.

See, if it were any of your other friends addressing you like this, you’d be snapping back at them. But the Harleyberts are totally different from the kind of people you usually associate yourself with. You trust them all for the most part. They’ve sheltered you, shown you sympathy, and shared everything they had with you. What makes them so astounding is that you were a complete stranger, yet they helped you anyways. It still is unsettling to think that you’ve only known them for a little over two weeks, and you talk to John and Jade as if you had known them for at least several months. You wonder if you’d still behave this way with them if you hadn’t been forced together by circumstance. Your other friendships had been developed into strong bonds with the help of many years and thousands of sarcastic quips. You had graced them with your presence because they shared a common trait with you: they were all assholes. It had taken a long time for each of them to adjust to your repulsive vocabulary and rude remarks, but they had learned to formulate replies that were just as offensive as your own. You nearly got whiplash from adjusting from them to your new, almost too jovial companions. No longer could you enjoy sharp-tongued bantering; every time you insult one of them, they just laugh it off! You are the black sheep of this group. While they are supported by blind optimism, kittens, and the tiniest amount of glitter, you are a gaping hole of negativity and self-esteem issues. You may know the basic background of each of the Harleyberts, but you don’t feel like you _know_ them. This is why you must try to find the fine line between “offensive” and “perfectly fine.” If you insult them and make them too mad, what’s to stop them from refusing to support you any longer? The fear of being booted outside after crossing an unacceptable boundary is too great and you’re not in the mood to experience the sensation of having your flesh removed forcibly from your skeleton in order to become a snack.

This is why you have found yourself in the “Brooding Corner,” as John had dubbed it, multiple times in the past few days. Yes, you are an irritable person, but it feels like you’ve busted your fuse a bit too often. It appears being constantly hungry, thirsty, and filthy has NOT done wonders for your attitude. _Who would’ve known?_ You huff and lean against a wall, the epitome of a gloomy, troubled teen. The others are still discussing your plan.

“Look, can we really leave if we don’t know what we’re getting into? If we just drive out there full-throttle we’re going to get lost and die! But then again, without food we can only last, what, three weeks? We’re probably down to another two days of water. Ugh, this is so frustrating!” John exclaims as he runs his hands through his hair and hunches his shoulders. Jade is the first to respond.

“Yeah, I don’t really want to leave if we don’t have a plan, but if we did start driving we’d probably run into a gas station or a convenience store that’d have food and drinks… maybe. We haven’t wasted any bullets and everyone has weapons. I don’t know what we’ll do once we run out of gas, but we can figure it out! I think… I think I’m going to side with Karkat. I’d get out there and take our chances rather than hole up and die of thirst and starvation!” Ah, Jade, always the first to see sense.

“But it still seems a bit too risky. Can’t we decide on a location before heading out?”

You finally decide to contribute and call out, “I don’t have any specific names, but I did at one point consider going somewhere around northern Alaska. It gets pretty damn cold there. But I wouldn’t mind if we ended up veering out of that path and ending up somewhere in northern Canada, either.” You give a noncommittal shrug. You didn't mention it before because it didn't seem concrete enough to set your sights on. You don't know much about either area, but you were worried considering there's the possibility that they are _too_ cold. You want to go somewhere chilly, but there's no point heading somewhere if you don't have enough gear to guarantee that you won't freeze along with the zombies. Well, they asked, so no point in withholding that any longer. 

Dad Egbert hasn’t said anything up to this moment. Out of everyone, he is by far the hardest to read. His eyes look almost blank, like he’s a thousand miles away from this table and your conversation. He’s still moving his pipe back and forth in his mouth. You hope there are some gears turning in that skull, because this is an entire group effort and technically, he is the wisest of all of you.

John and Jade both seem to be on board now, on a better note. Everyone (sans senior Egbert) come to the decision after consulting the map that it’d be best to drive to Barrow, Alaska, because it was the farthest north in all of North America. Also, the place was probably freezing. It seems like the Harleyberts were already stocked up with a metric fuckton of blankets and cold-weather clothing, so your worrying was an absolute waste of energy. You would all arrive, scout the area for other survivors and potential threats, and figure out what you were going to do next from there.

John’s already forming a list of what will be necessary to pack when Mr. Egbert starts to speak.

“I understand that you all think this is what must be done, but don’t you think that this may be too little planning? I don’t think that we should go.” He sounds distressed. “This has been my home for many years, then it became John’s home, and eventually Jade’s home. I may be a ridiculous, sentimental man, but this house means the world to me, and I am not eager to abandon it. Suddenly you’re all rushing to leave, but I don’t think we are grasping the idea that no matter where we go, we will not be entirely safe. Just saying it makes me feel downhearted, but it is the truth. The north may somehow be even more dangerous compared to here. Are we sure there isn’t anything else we can do? Anything at all?”

His expression is almost heart-shattering. John and Jade look uncertain as to what the hell they should say, considering they seem to be in a dilemma of whether they should either a.) tell their old man the truth, and watch as the the hope in his eyes dies, or b.) lie to him and tell him there is another option. You’re about as smooth as sandpaper when it comes to emotional comfort, but it seems the other two are out of commission for the moment. You push off the wall and tentatively walk towards Mr. Egbert. You walk to stand by his side, rather than directly in front of him; you don’t want to feel like you’re talking down to the man. You need somewhere to put at least one of your arms so you don’t look give off “enormous tool” vibes. Your left arm rests on the back of Mr. Egbert’s chair.

“James-- I can call you that, right? Right. This whole speech is going to be the verbal equivalent of watery vomit, but please bear with me, because I’m trying to not sound like an incompetent dunderfuck... I sincerely wish that there was another option. Trust me, evacuating this comfortable place and fleeing to a town where we’ll probably forget what having unfrozen fingers feels like is the opposite of appealing. I’ve only been here for a short amount of time, but I feel safe here. And I know John and Jade have that same feeling, but amplified at least five hundred times. So I can only imagine how you feel." He has his eyes fixed on the wall across from him, rather than on you, dammit. You want to snap at him, but that would be the opposite of progressive in this conversation. So you continue. "We’re not planning to go because we _want_ to. We’ve all asked ourselves what we need to do in order to not become yet another ugly corpse wandering around outside. I know that you know there’s no way in hell we’re going to last long enough to find a better solution here. Sure, we could live a few weeks with no food, but if we run out of water in two days, three days later we’ll be dead. We have a car for emergency situations, and this probably qualifies as an emergency.” He’s still not looking at you, and is opting to stare at the map on the table instead. “Okay, so I know this is making me seem like a heartless dickweed with no sympathy for the elderly, but I don’t know what to say. I guess what I need to ask is, what are you willing to do for your son and niece?” Still no reaction. You probably only made this whole situation worse, bravo, time to scamper out of the room in the manner of a startled wild animal and--

“I guess I needed a reminder as to where my priorities lie; silly old me.” Mr. Egbert lets out a humorless laugh that sounds like a dying dog letting out its last, raspy bark. “Thank you, Karkat.” He finally looks towards you, and being the social interaction expert you totally are, you give him an awkward nod and scoot out of his line of vision. Jade bumps you with a shoulder while John claps you on the back. Yeah, yeah. Thanks for all the help, inept shitgarglers.

Jade steps forward and takes the wheel.

“Now that we’ve sorted that all out, we know that we’ve got to pack basic necessities, and we need to get to Barrow. But we never talked about how we’d get out of the driveway and on our way when there are so many zombies outside! The good news is, I think I have a plan! First…” She’s still explaining and you should be listening, but your attention drifts as you watch John casually slide his chair closer to his father’s. The idiot nudges at his dad until he gets his attention. His father slowly looks up; he seems like all the energy has been sucked out of him. John has an apologetic expression as he clearly mouths “I’m sorry.” You can’t see how Mr. Egbert replies, but they lean together in some weird sort of half-hug before reverting their attention back entirely to Jade. It’s so saccharine that you almost flinch with revulsion, but it’s also endearing to see how close the family dynamic is. You really should be listening to Jade, considering this plan pertains to you and your future.

You tune in.

“And then we set them on fire!”

Wait what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so i wasn't as satisfied with this chapter... it might be because i started and finished the process of making this one much quicker than the first chapter, so it doesn't feel as fine-tuned. 
> 
> sure, this chapter isn't really exciting action-wise, but trust me, the next one will be significantly more busy. 
> 
> about updating: i don't think i'm going to keep a schedule. i'll probably write when i have time and i feel like it, because there is a ton on my plate this school year and i'd rather not stress out more than i have to. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

This has got to be one of the stupidest things you have ever done.

Well, _plan_ to do. And some of the stuff you have participated in during your slightly-less-than two decades of life has been downright ludicrous.

It would be fair to say that your mental process isn’t actually processing considering you are _willingly_ gearing up to _willingly_ run amongst the flesh-eating monsters and blaze them into charred crisps with a plan that only has a predicted success rate of 37% (...Admittingly, that number was absolute bullshit, but you doubt that you’re far off from the correct figure). Harley has yet to fall through with her ingenious/maniacal schemes, but it would be just like Lady Luck to descend directly from the heavens on a glittering cloud of dreams and aspirations, then cruelly punt everyone in the face with a grimy boot due to this plan having a direct relation to you. Nothing ever goes right when you’re around.

But back to your own prepping. Glancing to your right confirms that you have all the ingredients to get this asshole rumpus party on the road. You have been equipped with a lighter, a small amount of gasoline, your sickle, and an overwhelming sense of mounting dread. Upon receiving the gas, you had asked where the idiots had even found it; they proceeded to explain how they had siphoned the gas from abandoned cars in the early days of the apocalypse blah blah blah the internet was a lifesaver there blah blah blah it was originally intended for the car but BLAH BLAH **BLAH**. You weren’t actually that interested, you just wanted the assurance that it wasn’t taken from the uncertain amount of gas already present in your getaway vehicle. With that concern gone, you could focus on other things. Things like worrying about whether or not you’ll be fast enough to outrun the undead corpses when hindered by your gear. You don’t know that much about the things hanging around outside besides the fact that they’re dead. They honestly could have figured out how to ride motorbikes, invent fucking jetpacks, and organize themselves into a zombie monarchy but you’d never know because you’ve been shut in for weeks. Your brain is thinking a bit too much about the possibilities of what could go wrong and it’s making it hard to successfully dress yourself, at the moment. You’ve been struggling with the same shoelace for five minutes because your fingers feel like greasy sausages, and your heart is doing this unnecessary tango and _you swear to fuck why is it so hot in the room it’s only the end of October--_

You nearly shoot out of your skin when a hand claps down on your shoulder. It’s only slightly a relief to realize it’s the giant bucket of festering discharge known as John. He gives you a fraction of a smile then plants his butt on the stairwell next to you.

“So, are you still not opting out of this?”

“No.” You want to mentally punch yourself square in the jaw because you could obviously get out of this if you wanted to, but there are other things getting in the way.

“We’d all promise not to judge you if you backed out of this, Karkat! You’re putting on a good act and all, but do you even realize how much you’re shaking? We can all tell you’re terrified! We can swap jobs if you want to, no hard feelings.”

That is exactly what you are NOT going to do.

“Nice try, Egbert. But I can assure you, I am as stoic as a goddamn rock at the moment. All this ‘shaking’ you’re seeing is either a.),  a construct of your overactive imagination, or b.), shivers of anticipation for when I get to burn the shit out of those walking abominations.”

John just gives you a sideways stare, hiking up both of his eyebrows so far that you’re shocked when they don’t vanish into his hairline.

“Put those back down, you nimrod.” He puts them back down.

“Anyways, I’m just here to give you a heads-up that we plan to head out in maybe five minutes, if you’re ready to go by then.” You nod your head to confirm that you will be ready, despite the reality that at your current rate, your shoelaces will probably take another two hours to tie. John apparently notices your struggle and bestows himself upon the task of sliding down onto the stair step below your feet and _tying your shoes for you_. It makes you wonder what other kind of weird shit he pulls off as a part of his friendship gigs. _Hahah no, bro, trust me, it’s perfectly normal for a guy to brush his friend’s teeth, I swear! You got your leg trapped in that pant leg? Oh, dude, let me help you out-- but no homo! You want me to wipe your ass for you? Oh here hand me that toilet paper okay_ it’s time to strand that train of thought on a raft then push it hard enough that it drifts somewhere far FAR away where it will wither up and die before anyone can recover it.

“The dragon goes under the bridge, through the loop and into the castle,” John recites with a bad Scottish accent as he handles your shoelaces. You cuff him on the head-- the knuckle-dragging dimwit deserves it, considering he has the audacity to quote fucking Shrek in a situation like this. He just laughs it off, and finishes his task by double-knotting your shoelaces.

“I double-knotted just in case, you know! I haven’t known you for that long, but you seem like the kinda guy who would trip on his own shoelaces when things get bad!” Oh, really now. The impulse to tell him that he seems like the kind of guy to trip on his shoelaces and directly into a pile of manure even in non-urgent situations is overwhelming, but you’re determined to be the bigger man. Instead, you just roll your eyes.  

Satisfied with his work, John stands up and dusts off his pant legs. 

“Remember that we’re here for you dude. You volunteered for this, but that doesn’t mean your decision was set in stone. Just tell us if you don’t feel like you can do it, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response and just pats you on the head like you’re some obedient dog, then strolls to the kitchen to check on Mr. Egbert and Jade. Now seems like as good a time as any to hunch over and massage your face with your hands.

Taking John up on his offer is really tempting. Like, really, really tempting. But you just… can’t. You volunteered for the role of “zombie torcher/live bait” because of a wide array of reasons, many of which you can barely understand yourself. The most prevalent one in your conscious mind is the realization that you are up to your goddamn eyeballs in debt when it comes to what you owe the Harleyberts. It takes an entirely different brand of person to willingly share their essentials with a stranger, and it’s frankly even more amazing to stumble upon an entire family of said brand. You’ve contributed with practically nothing and taken so much that it’s a wonder you didn’t scream at them to kick you out and save themselves. That leads you to your next motive. They honestly deserve to live so much more than you do. They’re clean and innocent-- scratch that-- they’re _pure_. Sometimes you worry about the mud you’ve probably flung on their pristine personalities just by being in their presence. You’re a selfish, repulsive kid, that just so happens to be a murderer with nothing to lose. Meanwhile, they have everything. Death obviously isn’t something you’d greet with wide, open arms, but if it meant saving this family, you think you could at least give it a formal handshake. You’re probably not going to find redemption in this lifetime fast enough to not to be booked with a first-class seat in hell, but you genuinely care enough about these people enough to not give a shit about “rewards,” or whatever the system of cosmic judgement will present to you for being a slightly decent human being. You know your dad’s blood is on your hands, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to let more get spilled on them.

The sound of the kitchen door swinging open prompts you to look up just in time to see Jade lumber through. It’s a good thing her shoulders are broad, because the backpack she’s hauling must weigh a metric fuckton; how the hell is she even balancing it all on her back, holy shit. Following her is Dad Egbert and John, both lugging backpacks that are similarly stuffed to the gills. John heads back inside the kitchen to grab another backpack, then returns to place it right by the door. Seems like this is your cue to stand up. Jade takes no time to pace over and fidget over you. She checks, double-checks, then triple-checks that your belt is capable of holding your sickle by your side, shoves her hands into your pockets to confirm that there aren’t any holes for the lighter to fall through, and tests the handle of the gas container to make sure it won’t fly out of your grip while running because _you need to be ready for absolutely anything and everything, Karkat!_

You take her mother-henning in stride because it’s one of her various ways to conceal her nerves, and pointing out that you’ve completed this process yourself nearly a thousand times already would only make her more flustered. Stepping back, the sense of grim finality that permeates throughout the room makes you feel like you’re all attending a funeral, rather than racing out of this room with the urgency and grace of rabid baboons on amphetamines.

Well, it seems like this is it. You’ve all rehearsed the plan enough times that you could probably recite it backwards while blindfolded with heavy metal playing in the background, all while doing the macarena, or something equally stupid. Everything is set. The door in the kitchen had been boarded up, while the boards covering the door in the living room had been ripped down because it is closer to the driveway holding the car. Jade rubs her hand up and down your shoulder blade reassuringly. John and Elder Egbert both give you nods that are almost unnerving in how similar they are. None of you explicitly say “goodbye,” because you’re all fucking experts in tip-toeing around the possibility of not ever seeing each other again.

You take one more sweeping look around the room. Your heart has resumed its ridiculous pounding but it simultaneously feels like it’s lodged up in your throat; what the fuck is up with that? No time to dwell on it too much, you’ll end up drowning everyone in the room with the revolting amount of sweat you’re producing if you wait too much longer. Clutching at the gasoline container in your left hand like a security blanket, you walk to stand in front of the door. It occurs to you that this could possibly be the last time any other living, breathing person will be able to listen to you and acknowledge that yes, Karkat Vantas is definitely not an ugly, soulless meatsack. You should probably say something cool in case these are your last words. Unfortunately, you didn’t think of anything beforehand, damnit. Hmmm…  Wait. You’ve got something.

You turn to face the group one last time.

“Thanks for not being prime examples of human disasters. You’re all pretty decent, so make the best out of what I’m doing, alright?” _wait that was horrible FUCK._

But still, too late, it’s time to book it. You fling open the door with your right hand, kick it closed behind you, then barrel away, hastily sidestepping every time a zombie gets in your path. It’s a relief to see that they’re still slow, so you can keep their filthy mitts a safe distance away from you with only one of two occasionally straying a hair too close. The cold air makes it feel like you just chewed ten pieces of mint gum then chugged a gallon of ice water like a deranged lunatic, but there’s not much you can do to counter that. You’ve made it about twenty five feet away from the house. Now comes the fun part of this whole ordeal, sarcasm heavily implied.

You suck in a deep breath and let out the shrillest scream possible.

It’s choppy considering you’re running, but it gets the help-I’m-dying impression out very well. Sure enough, the more you tear up your throat with the noise, the more zombies flock to greet you. A quick glance confirms that the ugly fucks once known to decorate the Egberts’ lawn have come to join the party, leaving viscera, limbs, and other equally repulsive things behind in their rush to see whether the creature making those sounds was edible or not. Good. You have a two and a half minute start on the others, who will spend their zombie-free time loading their shit into the car.

You veer to the right, heading towards the lake that’s a few houses down from la casa de Egberts. There’s this big expanse of open space by the lake that’s perfect for hosting a shitton of bodies, and you’re going to need it. Once you arrive, you intend to soak everybody in gasoline, hurl the lighter at them, then head back to catch your ride as it speeds out of this giant figurative toilet bowl of misfortune. Another expeditious check shows that your accomplices are up and about; you see Jade and Mr. Egbert have hurled their things into the trunk and are settling into the driver’s seat and shotgun, while John is running back inside for the last backpack. You’re turning back to face forward, but nearly break your neck from snapping it back to its previous position because _ooooooh SHIT where did all of those dickbags come from?_

At least twenty of those things are stumbling towards John. Okay, okay, things are looking tough but you’re sure he’ll pull through, right? He fought off all of those decaying numbskulls when they were swarming you a few weeks ago, no biggie. Right? What are you kidding, there are four times that amount coming his way and his chances of getting out alive without any help are about as slim as a single-ply sheet of toilet paper.

You don’t really have an alternate plan but you’re sure as hell not going to stick to the original if the zombies refuse to play their fucking part. You take a sharp turn to your left now, and weave through the backyards of other houses until you’re approaching the road near the front yard of the Egberts’. Jade and Mr. Egbert are banging on the car’s windows in concern for their relative, but at least their cranial faculties haven’t abandoned ship and motivated them to run to the rescue. The original cadaver cavalcade tailing you is still doing so, but maybe you can persuade the other group to join in. You’re shouting, clapping, shaking your ass goddamnit, and running in a circle, anything to distract them from John, who has exited the front door and is hurling his final load into the trunk. He shoots into the backseat and the sigh of relief you release is **phenomenal**. Then again, you’re still in hot water, so that was an absolute waste of breath.

You’re about to head back to your original destination, the lake, but haha, whoops, looks like that way has been blocked off due to your lack of an ability to realize that THESE TAINT-CHAFING DIPSTICKS ARE EVERYWHERE, YOU DINGUS. You’re surrounded, and it’s like a hideous replay of your awful experience a few weeks ago, except thirty times worse. You could try yanking out your sickle and going to town on these jackasses, but the body blockade has got to be at least three people thick, now, and you’re not even that good at fighting. The only place to go is inside the house, but considering every entrance and exit sans the living room’s is barred, you don’t think your chances would be much better in there. Still, what else can you do? You just hope that everyone in the car stops sitting there with their fucking hands in their pants, and get the hell out of dodge.

You rip open the door with your gasoline still in hand, and slam the door behind you with as much force as you can muster. There’s no time to shove something in front of the door, so you just lock it. The thumps on the door are loud and you swear you can almost feel the vibrations in your teeth even while you back away to run upstairs. You’re perched on the top of the stairwell, overlooking the couch when the sound of splintering wood makes itself known. After all this running your lungs are on fire, and it would be fair enough to say that you’re swallowing more mucus than air as you do your best to catch at least a fraction of your breath. You think you’ve got something barely resembling a plan thought out, but you don’t know if you’ll ever be forgiven for doing this horseshit. This is the kind of thing only a jackass devoid of a soul would pull. The risks are high, but your levels of hysteria are even higher, so you think you’ll take a chance and see what comes of it.

Another thirty seconds pass and your last resort of a barricade is defeated; the door crashes down and the corpses pile in. You uncap your container of gasoline and wait until they start collecting in the living room. Some are stumbling slowly up the stairs, but you hope to be gone by the time they reach your spot. When the flow of zombies coming through the doorway has slowed to a trickle of only one or two, you flip over the container and start letting it sprinkle onto your aggressors like a disgusting shower. There’s not enough gas to thoroughly drench any one body alone, but you hope the combined effect will be enough. When the container is empty, you hurl it as hard as possible into the heads of the ones approaching you via the stairs. It’s not really useful, sure, but the small twinge of satisfaction that comes from being able to land a hit on them is nice.

The next part of operation “I’m Not in the Mood to Die Today, But Thanks for the Offer” is infinitely more scary. You slide your ass over the edge of the platform that is located over the couch. Upper arm strength has never been your forte, but you make every ounce of effort count while lowering yourself to stand on the couch. The fall wouldn’t be fatal, but you don’t really have time to spare on being winded or jolting your leg with a clumsy landing. So proceeding with caution is truly the only way to go. Zombies are reaching for your legs and torso, but well-aimed swipes with your feet keep them at least far enough away for you to finish your descent. Your palms are sweaty and slick as you wrestle your sickle out of your belt. You bounce over the arm of the couch, begin to edge around the room,  and slash at anything that moves. It’s difficult work, but the fact that they don’t merely swamp you with their numbers is a pleasant surprise. Then again, they’re probably too stupid to realize that they could. The twisting knot in your stomach unravels a teensy amount when you can see that the door is only a foot or two away. A zombie or two stagger in every ten seconds or so, but you’re too close now to find a different, safer route.

Your back is pressed against the wall as you slide over to the door. You steel your nerves one last time before swinging your sickle in a circle in order to hit both the zombies ahead and behind you. The one in the doorway totters backwards but doesn’t fall, so you strike it again, this time specifically in the head. Blood spurts on your face and you swear to fuck if you had anything in your stomach you’d be vomiting right now. You choke that feeling down in time to slip out the door and shove the nearest zombie to the ground. Your left hand scrabbles in your pocket for the lighter and it’s up and lit before you’d even have time to say “pyromaniac.” You’re about to toss it through the doorway when you realize _the fucking car is still parked_. You can see John and Jade with their faces squished against the glass. Their eyes are wider than dinner plates, and you almost want to drop everything and do a silly dance for them because _look assholes, I’m still up and at it, despite the fact that you all thought that I was a goner_. But their presence here is just bringing up your earlier internal conflict over why you didn’t want to execute this plan in the first place.

Okay, so you were going to set their house on fire while the zombies were inside. Sure, you could get into the whole argument of “a house is just a possession, your life is the priority here!” and 99% of the time you’d agree wholeheartedly. The issue here is that this house means a whole fucking lot to Mr. Egbert. The entire reason this plan was hard to get underway was because he felt so attached to it! You’d feel heartless burning it down after he fought so hard in its name, but without him as a witness, you could commit to the act and suffer your guilt quietly without him being in the know. This wouldn’t be such a dilemma if they had all left you behind to do what you had to in peace. No, the family had to be the Good Samaritan gang and wait for you, even though they probably would have a better chance of surviving without you. Of course your situation means you get to decide whether to burn Mr. Egbert’s home to the ground in front of his very eyes, or to leave the house full of zombies alone and risk the lives of anyone else living nearby. You shouldn’t be using this time to pace around with your thumb up your ass, but you really don’t know what to do.

Your gaze is switching side-to-side, focusing on both the threat inside and the possible threats outside. In your peripheral vision, you see something moving-- it’s Mr. Egbert violently waving at you to get your attention. He’s probably telling you to haul ass to the car but wait, no, that’s not it. It’s to your astonishment that you see him gesture for you to toss the lighter into the house.

You don’t sit around long enough for him to change his mind.

You wind your arm back and fling it as hard as you can into the crowd. At first you think something went wrong, considering you can’t see any signs of a fire. But sure enough, a moment or two later an orange glow envelopes one of the dolts in the middle of the group. The flames spread like… well, like wildfire, reaching out and absorbing each and every person in that room. It’ll only be a matter of time before it gets to the surrounding furniture.

Spinning around, you have to chop down another zombie before reaching the car. Your fingers must be numb considering you can’t get a grip on the door’s handle, and John has to reach over and throw the car door open for you. You get in and ram the door closed behind you. Mr. Egbert is backing out of the driveway at a breakneck speed, and you barely have time to process this before he’s whipping the car so it’s facing left. Inertia proves to be a grade-A shitsponge in how it allows your head to slam back when he drives forward and away from his home.

There’s a moment of silence, where everyone’s mind is struggling to process the past ten minutes’ occurrences.

You beat the other two teens to the punch, and your award is an immense urge to throw up. As was mentioned earlier, a lack of food to regurgitate means you can only dry heave, which is probably one of the luckiest things to happen today. John’s there in an instant to rub your back for comfort, and while you’ll never say it out loud, you’ve never been more grateful. You’re doubled over and wheezing while retching, a combination that is about as harmonious as toothpaste and orange juice. Why won’t someone speak up and draw the focus away from your appalling failure to keep your own body in check? Seriously, someone needs to start talking. Anybody.

Yet, no one helps you out. It takes you another solid ten minutes to stop the roiling momentum in your stomach and finally look up. The only word that comes to mind when looking at everyone’s face is “desolate.” Makes sense, considering you just burned their house down.

“I--” your voice falters; the bile still caught in your throat makes it burn. You try again.

“I’m really sorry I did that. I could have found a different way instead of leading them in there. I was panicked and stressed and honestly I don’t deserve to be in this car with you, just kick me out please, do something, be angry--”

“Karkat. Pipe down, please.” Mr. Egbert’s voice is so tired, and it’s all because you made him decide between you and that house. At this rate you’re not even worth half a house, he shouldn’t have to feel this way because of you.

“But--”

“Stop this nonsense, young man. None of those events could have been predicted, and we’re all still alive, aren’t we? We probably helped a lot of people by getting rid of those bodies, even if our house didn’t last. Don’t worry about it; just get some rest, Karkat. You need it.”

You want to say something to John and Jade, but they don’t look like they want to hear it, either. Leaning the side of your forehead against the window and curling up with your feet on the seat, you never realized just how much your legs muscles ache, or how loose your arms feel. Maybe you should take a nap. You’ll just fall asleep when you’re ready, you guess.

There are trees are racing by outside. It’s mesmerizing and lulling, putting you into a trance that nearly takes your mind of what’s happened. The whole situation just feel so normal that it's hard to remember that the world ended two weeks ago. Before you know it, your eyelids are already slinking downwards. Right before you fall asleep, you get a strange sensation that tells you that you recognize these trees.

When you wake up an hour and a half later, you’ll have no recollection whatsoever of that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i actually updated this again after what, two months? it's been a while, yeesh. 
> 
> i kind of feel like i pulled this chapter out of my ass, i'm not gonna lie. for now i'm pretty satisfied with it, but i think i'll probably end up circling back to tweak a few things in the course of a month or two. 
> 
> other than that, there's some good news: i actually have a direction to pull this heap of trash in! it's not solid and final, but it's definitely something.
> 
> i might make some art for this, i might not... we'll see. 
> 
> i think that's it so, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter Four

If you could construct a time machine out of the meager supplies present in what has become your mobile prison, you’d travel seven hours back in time to hit past you upside the head and demand him to empty his bladder before risking his neck to get this godforsaken trip on the road. Bladders aren’t meant to be held for this long, and if you have to wait even another thirty minutes, you’re going to die in a tragic, piss-fueled explosion. You’re not sure how the others are faring, but if Mr. Egbert doesn’t pull this car over for a pitstop soon, you may have to attempt sabotage and pull it over for him.

John and Jade have been knocked out for at least three hours, if the obnoxious snoring is anything to go by. They’ve abandoned you to deal with the infamous situation known as “sitting in the car in complete and utter silence without a fragment of an idea of what to say to your friends’ parent.” There’s been a time or two where you’ve tried to start up a casual chat, but your heart isn’t really into it and it’s pretty obvious that his isn’t either, meaning you both exchange five words tops then lapse back into quietude. It doesn’t really help that he glances at you through the rearview mirror every five minutes or so. At first you just thought it was because he wanted to check to see if you hadn’t hurled yourself out a window due to boredom, but the more he does it, the more it feels like he’s looking for something. Like hell you know what that something is, but his behavior is disconcerting as fuck.

The sky has been gloomy and brooding for hours, and now that the sun is setting, it only gets darker. It feels like it’s going to be the type of night that makes the hairs on your arm stand up straight every damn time the breeze blows. The car’s dashboard and headlights provide the only sources of light, and your companions appear to be nothing more than silhouettes. It was a foreign sensation when you first realized that the normal lights that accompany the lined up restaurants, stores, and hotels were all missing from the scenario. You felt kind of like you had just gone to put your foot on the last step of a staircase and discovered that it wasn’t there, meaning you fell flat on your face like the world’s biggest dunderfuck. Then again, you should have expected it considering it’s not like there’s really anyone to advertise to when over half the earth’s population is deceased and everything is chaotic. That thought makes you feel sick again, so you stop ruminating on it.

You’re jolted from your daze when the car’s breaks whine to a stop. It’s difficult to see outside, but from what you can tell, you’ve stopped at a gas station. Mr. Egbert has flicked off his headlights. Thankfully, the area looks zombie-free, but you know it’s better to stay on edge rather than be lulled into a false sense of security. John and Jade are nudged awake; they’re bleary, but quickly pick up that the car is stopped.

“I know it’s almost nighttime, so it’s best if we stop and attempt to fill our gas tank now while we can see. John and I have the most knowledge on siphoning gas, so we’ll try to get what we can from the gas pumps first, then the cars around us. Karkat, Jade, would you be okay with going into the store and seeing what foods and drinks are available? I’ll hand you cash so that we can at least try to compensate for what we take.” You nearly scoff at that, but Mr. Egbert is a true gentleman, and it’d probably sit heavy on his conscience to steal anything, even a few cheap snacks.

“By the way, mind if I run to the bathroom? I’m dying here,” you ask. If he says no, you’re going to do a backflip off the fucking handle and pee on everything he loves.

“Of course. Just be quick.” Thank god. The lower half of your anatomy feels like it could sing its thanks to the heavens.

Each pair takes a flashlight in case it gets too dark before their jobs are finished. Egbert and Egbert Senior scuttle off to the gas pumps; John is lugging a container, a plastic tube, and a rag behind him. You watch Mr. Egbert kneel in front of the pump before Jade grabs your hand and nearly wrenches your arm out of its socket by pulling you to the store.

“Come on, Karkat! We don’t have time to lose!” You only grumble in response.

The store is exactly what you’d expect: creepy. There are cars strewn across the lot in front of the place; some have doors that are flung open, closed, _ripped off the hinges, how the fuck did anyone manage to do that?_ The glass doors at the entrance have been shattered and the inside seems dismal and uninviting. You think that might be blood smeared on one of the intact windows nearby. Great. Apparently, countless hours of being forced to watch B-movie horror films with friends have taught you nothing, because you and Jade are still moving forward.

There’s a rasping noise that makes you spin around and cling to Jade. Your sights settle on the body of the first zombie you’ve seen in hours, who has been unfortunate enough to have been pinned under an SUV’s back wheel. You feel like this guy is a prime example of what it would look like if a person became road kill. His insides are spilled in a pile around him and the flies have already settled on top of him, despite the fact that he’s still squirming and reaching towards you like a toddler desperate for attention. His head has clearly seen better days, considering his face is smashed inwards-- almost like someone had decided to go to town on it with a baseball bat or a sledgehammer. Or the wheel of their two ton car. You know you have never met this guy when he was living, but you think he resembles someone you do know… Oh.

He kind of reminds you of your dad.

The body in front of you has been smashed to bits like your dad was, but he’s still up and at it. Does this mean your dad could be an undead monster, too? No one knows how the ‘disease’ spreads, so it could be transmitted through the air. If it reached the crash site, it’s almost guaranteed he’d end up joining the corpse parade. The mental image of your disfigured father writhing in the front seat of your wrecked car has you hopelessly trying to suck in air that seems to have suddenly vanished from your lungs. You killed him and turned him into that thing. You’re definitely going to hell now, if you aren’t already there. You wonder if there’s a divine figure who’d let you trade places with him just so you don’t have to live with these shit-encrusted emotions. You’re getting light-headed; maybe you should sit on the ground for a bit and--

Jade yanks you away and pushes you directly towards the store’s doors. She doesn’t comment on your momentary meltdown. You feel unsteady on your feet as you slow to a halt in front of the entrance.

“Can you lean in and take a look? Take the flashlight and shine it around a bit,” she whispers. You don’t reply. Instead, you grab the flashlight, flick it on, bend forward, and rotate the light around the room. Judging by the absence of noise and appearances of ugly mugs, the store is clear. After communicating this to Jade, she prowls into the room. You can’t help but wince every time you hear the crack of glass under her feet, because _she should at least make a bit more of an effort to be quiet, for Christ’s sake_. Reluctantly, you follow suit.

The racks upon racks of junk food are surprisingly intact. Looking at it all makes your stomach growl and reminds you exactly how fucking starving you are. You search around until you find a plastic basket. You then proceed to cram as much sugary shit as humanly possible into the basket until carrying it proves to be a difficult feat. Pacing back to the car, you spot John and Dad Egbert, who have now moved on to the surrounding cars. The body under the SUV is now sporting another deep headwound, and has stopped moving. You don’t feel any better.

Now that you and Jade have taken at least half the store’s stock of food, it’s time to move on to the drinks. Your mind is still wandering as you travel to the far left side of the store. Jade mutters about how “the fridges still work, this store must be super lucky,” before grabbing four gallons of milk and hustling away. The section filled with gatorades beckons to you, but you find yourself shuffling over instead of running. You pry open the fridge’s door and start piling up the blue and purple flavors into your basket. You’ve moved onto the red flavor and are reaching towards the fourth bottle in that row when something clamps onto your ankle.

There’s barely time to let out a shout of surprise before your forehead smacks the bottom shelf. Looking over your shoulder, you come to the conclusion that a human carcass could fit under the snack shelves, ten minutes too late. It’s a woman with a grip of iron this time, because no amount of kicking is loosening her hold on your leg. Your eyesight is swimming and a brief flash of disappointment courses through you as you note that the basket of gatorades you collected has spilled and its contents are rolling all over the floor. The more you yank your leg away, the farther out from beneath the snack shelf the zombie slides. Reaching out, you grab a drink and twist to hurl it at her face. It bounces off her forehead, and you are reminded yet again that you are probably the universe’s definition of a complete and utter blockhead. Her mouth is straying towards your calf alarmingly fast, and you only now realize your sickle is right by your side, _GRAB IT YOU MORON_.

Your hands are pawing at your belt when a foot shoots across your vision and knocks the zombie onto her side. She’s still wiggling towards your leg, but the foot lands on her head this time, as if to say “NOT TODAY, BITCH.” Jade looks like she’s about to spontaneously combust as she continues to stomp on your attacker’s head. You can feel blood seeping into the legs of your pants, but you’re afraid that if you complain, Jade will stomp on your face, too.

There’s one more sickening squelch before the stomping stops, and both of you are just breathing in silence. Jade leans over to offer you a hand, which you sheepishly accept. She’s deeply inhaling, and there’s no doubt that she’s about to fiercely lecture you. You respond the way any mature adult would. You mutter “bathroom,” then sprint away.

You lock the door behind you and stalk around each nook and cranny of the room until it’s confirmed that you are alone. You quickly do your business. As one of your friends would say, “it’s a motherfucking miracle” that you didn’t piss yourself back there. Walking over to wash your hands in a sink that actually functions properly, you take a look into the mirror in front of you. The blood on your face has dried and crusted over; it almost looks black in this light. You look like a different person with greasy, overgrown hair and sunken eyes. Every part of your skin that is visible is caked in dirt and sweat. Your clothes, which were given to you this morning, look mismatched against your body considering they’re actually clean. Leaning over, you scrub off as much filth as possible from your face with the running water. You really don’t want to go back out, but the others expected you to be quick. You pause to take a few more deep breaths, then head back outside.

Jade has been busy. She’s plucked the gatorades off the floor and has probably placed them in the car. A few more rows of drinks have vanished. There’s two twenty dollar bills on the counter. Cautiously, you creep over to grab as many bottles of water as you can handle, then stumble back to the others. The parking lot is devoid of movement. It looks like everyone is loaded in the car, except yourself.

John is in the shotgun, this time. No one says anything as you climb into your seat and chuck your water bottles into the back of the car. You wonder if Jade told them what happened, or if she didn’t say anything and let them go on in ignorant bliss. Speaking of Harley, she’s sulking in the back with you. Your brain is screaming, “DO NOT APPROACH UNLESS YOU WISH FOR A COLD, MERCILESS DEATH VIA A BULLET BETWEEN THE EYES.” The car has picked up momentum and is cruising away from the station, now. You’re about to settle down with your head leaning against the window when she finally detonates.

“Karkat, what the heck was that?”

“What the heck was what,” you reply flatly.

She sputters a bit before shouting, “You know exactly what I mean!” in a voice that is two octaves too high for your liking.

“It was exactly what it seemed. I didn’t realize she was there, okay?” The other two in the front don’t start asking questions, so it seems that she did explain your brush with death to them.

“Yeah, but you should have! You’re the one that was supposed to make sure the store was clear, dumbo!”

“And I thought it was! What part of ‘I made a mistake’ isn’t drilling its way through your impossibly thick skull, Harley?”

“I heard it loud and clear, and that’s my problem, Karkat! You shouldn’t be making mistakes in the first place!”

“Oh, so you want me to destroy what ever percentage of imperfection I carry around with me? I can totally get on that-- wait, no I can’t! You know why? It’s because I’m a fucking human being, not a computer!” You’re breaching her personal bubble by putting your face directly in front of hers, but you honestly couldn’t give half of a rat’s ass about it.

“That’s not what I’m trying to say! I’m saying that you weren’t careful enough! You were acting all distracted and I should have shoved you back into the car when I had the chance!”

“So the minute I don’t hold up to your impossible standards of ‘mentally prepared’ you’re going to deem me worthless and cram me into some place where I can’t work to pull my weight? I hate to break it to you, but that’s a waste of energy and manpower because I. Am. Perfectly. FINE!” You’re even stomping your foot for emphasis. Wow, you probably seem like an asshat. Not that it really matters at the moment.

“No, you really aren’t, and it’s getting on my nerves! One look at that first zombie and you were clinging to me like a giant baby! You’re seventeen, so act like it!” She’s practically bonking foreheads with you right now, it is so fucking on.

“Maybe I wasn’t actually afraid of the goddamn zombie, and I just was thinking about all the shit I have on my plate!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” John asks in synch with Jade while finally joining the argument.

“I--” You’ve said too much, it’s time to backpedal away from this verbal catastrophe.

“I mean-- You know-- wait, let me rephrase this. What do you think I’m talking about, you nitwits?” You’re still tripping over yourself, but you think you can fix this with some careful phrasing.

“My last family member recently died; don’t you think that’d weigh down a bit on you, you insensitive fucks!?” John and Jade turn to look at each other with expressions that morph into mortification with a tinge of confusion. Okay, so that was an extremely cheap card to pull. It barely makes sense, considering it doesn’t even seem relevant to what just happened. Still, it holds the desired effect because people usually expect those who experience loss to grieve for a while. The fighting is probably over, but you actually feel worse now, even if those two are off your back. You need to shut this fiasco down before you self-implode.

John and Jade are already speaking up to apologize but you cut them off.

“Look, I get it, you’re sorry, but just... Pretend I didn’t say anything, okay? Nod to show that you understand, catapult yourself through the sunroof and shoot fireworks from your ass if you don’t.” Everyone nods, even Mr. Egbert.

“Alright. Thanks.”

With that sorted out, you slump backwards and lean your head back. Your forehead is still throbbing, but it’s dull enough that you can ignore it for the most part. Closing your eyes, you inhale and exhale until it feels like your blood pressure isn’t at a dangerous level. Then, you reach over to grab a bag of chips, rip it open, and finish it in the course of three minutes. You swear, you’re never going to take food for granted ever again. Next, you screw open a bottle of gatorade and chug the entirety of its contents in one go.

It’s another fifteen minutes before you realize that Mr. Egbert hasn’t looked at you even once through the rearview mirror. You guess that means he finally found what he was looking for. For some reason you can’t explain, his success makes you feel even more unnerved.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so i made this entire thing pretty quickly meaning it feels like it's lacking something important, but i don't exactly know what... it's also pretty short compared to other chapters! i actually intended to make a few more things happen before ending this chapter, but in the end i think this is probably better. 
> 
> i'm kind of tired, so there may be a few errors that i will try to go back and fix to the best of my abilities. i'm thinking about setting up a tumblr for questions and an FAQ but i don't think this is fic is big enough to warrant that. we'll see. 
> 
> yet again, thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: wow. it's been about half a year since i posted anything new here, right? i know i made a promise to post a chapter before the school year ended, but dang. i failed. school just got out. anyways, here's a quick update of stuff. things... (i honestly should have made this announcement MONTHS ago)  
> 1.) if you see anything about this fic updating, it's probably me screwing around with formatting... i didn't realize how terrible i was at abiding the laws of dialogue so that's going through some fixing rn.   
> 2.) "when's the fic actually going to get some new content?" you ask? i dunno, but probably sooner rather than later. i started up chapter 5 and while i have not made much progress, now that i don't have school holding me back as much i can probably get some work done. i have a lot of stuff to do this summer though, so we'll have to see how things go.   
> 3.) i'm a little tentative about writing at the moment, particularly for this fic. i've gotten into a habit of writing a LOT of slice-of-life things, so a faster-paced fic is gonna be hard to readjust to.... shrug.  
> 4.) i appreciate everyone's patience! i know i've been lame, and i hope to make up for it somehow! i guess i'll see y'all... sometime? thank you again! C:


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